Death Ex Machina by Gary Corby

mice in Diotima’s house.”
    “Find a cat,” he said absently. I could tell he wasn’t paying attention. In his mind he was probably planning his day’s work.
    “They’re in the roof.”
    That made him look up. He knew what mice in the thatching meant.
    I detailed the extent of the damage.
    “We will have to sell the house,” my father said.
    I glanced at Diotima. She looked studiously down at her bowl.
    “I’d rather not, sir,” I said, somewhat hesitantly. Father had not been keen for me to marry Diotima in the first place. Having won that major battle and installed her in my life, I hesitated to antagonize my father over a lesser disagreement.
    Sophroniscus put down his bowl. “Son, I know you like the place, but a house that doesn’t pay, that we don’t need, that’s costing us money … it’s a drain on the household finances. I’m sure you understand. That old house needs a lot of maintenance, doesn’t it?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “I know you’ve tried to make it pay,” he said. “The renting scheme was a good idea—”
    “Yes, but—”
    “But it hasn’t worked out, has it?”
    “No, but—”
    “Sometimes the best thing to do is accept a defeat and move on. You’ve done well with this career of yours, I admit it. I’m proud of you.”
    Father was being reasonable. I hated that.
    For so long as he lived, my father was responsible for our family, and I was a child in the eyes of the law. If he’d simply ordered me to sell the house, I could not have refused. But Father wasn’t going to order me. Instead he was going to make me see reason.
    My mother, Phaenarete, had listened to all this in silence. Phaenarete never questioned her husband in front of us. She had other ways of expressing her viewpoint, typically by failing to offer an opinion whenever Father said something of which she disapproved. Phaenarete’s silence could be more devastating than other wives who threw plates. I hoped that she would keep a studious silence, or perhaps even say a few words in my support.
    Now she crushed my hopes by saying, “Your father is right, Nico.”
    That ended it. We would have to sell the house.

SCENE 12
    TIME PASSES
    W E ALL THREE of us traipsed to the Theater of Dionysos. Socrates wanted to see the god machine.
    We found the stage manager there, though it was still early in the morning. Other than him, the theater was deserted. I noticed at once that on the back wall, someone had added a line below the No Whistling sign. The addition was in a different hand. Now it said:
    NO WHISTLING!
    and watch your feet—don’t trip or fall
    I felt it was good advice, but hardly needed saying.
    Or did it? Romanos had tripped over the dangerously placed broom. That could have broken his leg. Lakon had almost fallen from the sabotaged balcony. That could have ended with a broken limb, or a broken neck. Phellis had fallen heavily and now his leg was crippled.
    “You back again?” the stage manager said when he saw us. He held an actor’s mask in his hands.
    “There’s a criminal assault to avenge,” I said.
    He grunted. “I visited Phellis last night.”
    “How was he?”
    “Tied up in that machine in the doctor’s house, but he wasn’t screaming. Doctor said the leg was as good as you could expect. He also said Phellis can never act again.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah, me too. All right, I can’t say I like having you amateurs behind the skene, but I guess I got no choice.”
    “You’re here early,” I said.
    “It occurred to me nothing got put away properly last night,” he said. “After all the rain I thought I better check the damage. Look at this.” He swore as he held up the mask that had been in his hands. “Someone left it lying on the ground. It’s ruined now.”
    It did indeed look the worse for wear: muddy, and the material was splotched.
    The stage manager tossed the mask onto the bench beside him.
    “Can I have a look?” Diotima said, and before the stage manager